


Broken but Not Beyond Repair

by galactic_roses



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Beating, Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Original Character Death(s), References to Drugs, Violence, Vomiting, beginnings of trauma, possible past, young mogens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactic_roses/pseuds/galactic_roses
Summary: 20 or so years before Mogens arrives in Smeerensburg, he is working on a merchant ship. When they stop in a port city, Mogens has some free time, but blind faith and what starts out as a small errand send him down a road from which there is no turning back.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, we've had plenty of chats about how Mogens' past has gotta be dark and fucked up, yeah? Well, this is a take on one possible event that may have set young Mogens on the path to becoming the jaded ferryman he is in the movie Klaus.
> 
> (I am making a disclaimer here that I know jack shit about history, and I've never personally been in the situation that I put Mogs in here, so any historical or violent details may be inaccurate.)
> 
> The OC introduced at the end belongs to @captainmogens
> 
> Fic title is a line from the lyrics of _Saved_ by The Dear Hunter  
>  _Amongst the stone and smoke  
>  Rising above it all  
> Broken but not beyond repair  
> Let's see how this soul fares_  
>   
>  _And after all this suffering  
>  I could lie here for good  
> But with a mind on fire  
> I try and stand my ground  
> _

The scent of the city is what Mogens notices first. It slowly begins to overpower the salty brine smell of the ocean that he loves so much, filling his nose with the smells of acrid smoke, freshly-cut wood, new paint, and the other, less pleasant aromas of human habitation. Under it all is the constant reek of rot and urine, always present, if not prevalent, in the city breezes.

Despite the increasing stink in the air, Mogens is excited to be making port. He feels the lightness in his gut, the promise of a free day. It’s been too long since he’s set foot on dry land, and he intends to take advantage of the freedom he’ll have once the cargo is unloaded and the ship is in order.

“Prepare to dock!”

The sharp command rings out over the city noise, and Mogens jumps to obey. As much as he likes his shipmates, he is ready to see some fresh faces and hear some fresh voices, and the more hands that help with the work, the faster he’ll be set free.

Though he is one of the youngest sailors on the merchant ship, he pulls his own weight well enough. He has been on the ship for nearly a year now, and is almost as strong as some of the older men, though still learning new skills every day. He likes the sailor’s life, and it suits him.

The ship is unloaded before Mogens has time to get bored with the work. He double checks everything, making sure that he has everything he needs, then goes to the first mate.

“Sailor Mogens checking out, sir. My duties are finished and my things accounted for.”

The first mate turns and rakes him with bored eyes before answering.

“Very good, sailor. One thing before you go.”

The man pulls a yellowed envelope and a slip of paper out of one pocket and hands them to Mogens.

“This letter must be delivered to the address indicated before sundown, Captain’s orders,” the man says. “You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. Use the Captain’s name if asked. Be back before noon tomorrow. The Captain _will not_ wait for stragglers.”

“Yes sir!”

Mogens’ spirits are much too high for him to be bothered by the first mate’s rudeness, and he nearly bounces down the dock toward the streets. His feet feel so light, even if his legs are still a bit wobbly after so many months at sea. This isn’t the first port city they’ve stopped in, but it’s the first in a while.

He takes in the sights as he walks. The city is large, teeming with people and transportation, but the smells and noises are a bit overwhelming for a man who has just come off a ship. Still, Mogens is enjoying himself as he heads in whatever direction he wants.

Hours later, as the light is beginning to fade, it suddenly occurs to Mogens that he’s supposed to be looking for a specific address. The paper and envelope are a bit crumpled when he retrieves them from one of his pockets, but the words on the slip are still legible.

“Excuse me,” Mogens says, stopping a passing woman with a friendly wave. “Can you point me toward this address?”

The woman looks down at him and returns his smile. She gives him some general directions and suggests that he ask again a bit closer to the destination, as she isn’t entirely sure where the exact location is. Mogens turns on his full charm and thanks her profusely, then begins to follow her directions. He grins at the people he passes, startling some into smiling back, while others just frown or ignore him. It’s nice to see people who aren’t the same ones he’s been sharing a small space with for the past several months. He is sure he will never forget the smell of Jænis’ feet or the sound of Roulf snoring.

Amused by his own thoughts, he lets his legs take the lead. They carry him through the city, bringing him past taller and taller buildings. He strolls across the center square, and the buildings begin to shrink. The streets get dingier. Mogens stops near a grungy looking bar, and walks over to the grungy looking man standing outside.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where this is?” Mogens asks him. A thick silver ring hangs from the man’s nose, reminding Mogens of a bull he’d seen once. The man raises his eyebrows and jerks his thumb at the door behind him.

“Neat, thanks,” Mogens says, and walks into the building.

His first impression isn’t a good one. The bar is small and just as grungy on the inside as it is on the outside. Two rough-looking men are sitting in the corner, playing a nearly wordless game of cards, and an equally rough-looking man is whittling behind the bar, but otherwise the room is empty. A vague unsettled feeling begins to creep up Mogens’ spine, but he has his orders, so he makes his way over to the bar.

“I have a delivery for the owner of this establishment,” Mogens says, pulling the letter out of his pocket once more. “I was sent by the Captain of the Flying Dutchman. No no, I’m kidding, I was sent by Captain Skarpe Axelsen, and I’m supposed to give this to you.”

He offers the letter to the bartender. The man shoots him a disgusted look and takes the letter, using his whittling knife to slice the envelope open, then he begins to read. Something about the action sets Mogens’ teeth on edge. Looking around, he realizes that the man from outside has followed him into the building and is now blocking the door. His stomach sinks. Something isn’t right here. What business would the Captain have in this dingy bar, anyway?

“Fuck me,” the bartender growls. “Someone get the boss.”

Mogens begins to edge backward as one of the card players shrugs and disappears through a back door into an unknown room. He doesn’t realize that he’s really in trouble until a huge hand grips his shoulder, and a large presence establishes itself behind him.

“Where’re you off to?” the other card player growls in his ear. Mogens gulps.

“Um, back to the ship?” he lies. The fingers grasping his shoulder tighten. “Ouch!”

“What is going on?”

This new, ice cold voice draws Mogens’ eyes to its owner immediately, and a mixture of interest and fear spikes in his belly.

The new man looks quite obviously out of place in this dirty bar. His face is carefully ageless and clean-shaven, his salt and pepper hair combed back to show a high and sophisticated forehead. Gold studs glitter in his ears, mirroring the thick gold rings that sparkle on his fingers. Head to toe, he’s dressed impeccably, in a black three-piece suit, a black cravat, and shiny black shoes. Mogens has worked on a merchant ship long enough to recognize high quality fabric when he sees it; the suit jacket alone must cost at least as much as he has made from his service on the ship.

The man strokes his long, pale hands over his suit lapels and looks Mogens over with empty, colorless eyes.

“And what is this?” the man asks. “Is this why you’ve disturbed me?”

“Axelsen’s delivery boy. He brought this,” the bartender replies, and hands over the letter.

Mogens’ palms begin to sweat as the man reads, his thin, arched brows drawing together. When he looks up, his eyes are no longer empty. Instead, they crackle with ice, and cold fear seizes Mogens’s lungs, though he’s not entirely sure why.

“Is something wrong?” he asks hurriedly. “I was only told to deliver that letter, nothing else.”

“Something wrong? Hmm, something wrong, something wrong… how could something possibly be wrong?” the richly-dressed man asks sarcastically. He begins to advance toward Mogens with slow, menacing steps, until the sailor can smell the cigar smoke on his breath and see his own reflection in the wide, colorless eyes.

“So, your Captain didn’t happen to mention that his tainted poppy _killed my brother_ , then?”

“Poppy? I did say that I wa—”

Impact, then stinging pain registers in Mogens’ brain as the man backhands him across the mouth, splitting open his lip. He gasps from the impact, then licks the wound and tries again.

“What the fuck—”

The man slaps him once more.

“Shut up.”

Mogens spits blood onto the floor and fights to regain his breath. He tries struggling against the card player’s grip, but the fingers close even harder on his shoulder and he winces, feeling the bones in his shoulder beginning to creak with protest.

“And now that bastard Captain has ‘decided to take his business elsewhere’?” the richly-dressed man continues. He scratches his chin, then looks Mogens over again, a new, icy light appearing in his eyes. “He must trust you if he sent you with that information,” he says. “Or you’re merely the scapegoat. Either way, I believe you’re going to have to stay and have a chat with us. Your dear Captain wouldn’t want you to be wandering out on the dangerous city streets at night. It’s not safe these days with all the nasty criminals skulking about, and he would be very upset if an important sailor like yourself went missing… wouldn’t he?”

The man straightens, his eyes empty, and addresses Mogens’ captor.

“Take him out back and make it clear to that Captain what we think of his ‘business’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poppy=opium


	2. Chapter 2

Mogens hits the ground in the alleyway with a crunch, the gravel biting into his palms and adding to the sting of his split lip and the ache of his bruised shoulder.

“I didn’t even do anything!” he yells, but his words are interrupted by the sound of a door snapping shut.

“Don’t care,” one of the card players says.

“We didn’t like the look of you, anyway,” the other adds, cracking his neck.

“That’s hardly a reason to—” Mogens snaps, trying to stand up, but a booted foot connects with his side with stunning force and sends him sprawling onto the ground again. He hits the ground again and tries to pull air into his lungs, but they just won’t cooperate. Lights pop in front of his eyes. His entire left side is one burning ache. Gasping, his head spinning, he tries to push himself up again, then he suddenly finds that his hands and knees are no longer connected to the ground. The bigger of the two men lifts him into the air and shakes him like a rag doll.

“Would really be easier to let me go,” Mogens wheezes in a weak attempt at charm. The two men chuckle.

“Can’t do that, can we?”

Excruciating pain lances like lightning through every inch of his body as he hits the nearby wall, his head cracking against the wooden planks. He doesn’t notice the rough grain catching his clothes as he slides to the ground; all his attention is suddenly focused on his vision, which has gone almost completely dark. He can barely see.

“What—”

A swift and brutal kick to the gut causes him to double over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Before he can finish, he finds himself kicked into the dirt once more.

His mind, though hazy with pain and what is most likely a concussion, races, trying to think up a way for him to escape. His vision is returning very slowly, but he still cant make out more than blurred shapes. He blocks what he can of the rain of blows with his arms, but that doesn’t help much. Panic begins to flood his muddled brain. He can barely see or breathe, and his body is burning. Each time he tries to stand, kicks or heavy punches drop him to the ground again. As he tries to stand once more, a fist connects with his jaw, and though he doesn’t think it breaks, the impact stuns him. He forgets to cover his face with his arms.

Seconds later, he is back on the ground again, blood pouring from each nostril. It drips down the back of his throat. He chokes, retches, and rolls onto his good side as his stomach heaves, but there’s nothing left inside it to throw up. Tears stream down his bruised and bloodied face.

“Do you think we’ll get in trouble if we just off him?” one of the card players asks the other. “The boss didn’t specify if he wanted the kid dead or not.”

“Well, he never said Axelsen needed a return letter, did he?”

When Mogens hears this, something inside him rebels. He’s not going to die here, out on the ground behind some disgusting bar in an unfamiliar city. He wants to live. An abrupt burst of adrenaline pours into his limbs, driving back the pain, and he takes advantage of the mens’ lapse in attention to leap to his feet. Surprised, the two men react just a bit too slowly. Mogens’ already bloody fist catches one-off them under the jaw in a spot he’d seen brawlers target in the past, and the man’s eyes roll back in his head. He drops. Whirling, Mogens faces the other man, and though he’s a head shorter and badly beaten, he’s fighting for his life, and his body knows it.

“You’re dead,” the man snarls, and lunges forward. He isn’t sure how it happens, but somehow Mogens manages to find himself on the other man’s back, with one arm hooked under his chin. White hot pain shoots through his shoulder as he wrenches back as hard as he can, but the crack that results is far worse than the injury. Mogens, still clinging to his back, can practically _feel_ the life leave the man’s body, and he recoils, scrambling to get away before he is pulled to the ground.

Mogens can only spare one dazed look at the lifeless corpse at his feet before he begins to stumble toward the dim light at the end of the alleyway. His vision is still fuzzy, but he thinks he might be able to get back to the docks and safely aboard the ship. He stops on the road for a brief moment to try to get his bearings, then stumbles in the direction he hopes is correct.

This walk through the city is nothing like his earlier gambling stroll. The buildings, instead of being interesting architecture, are now looming, shapeless shadows. With every step, a new part of his body begins to ache. He can feel the creak of his ribs where they’d been kicked. Maybe they’re broken? He can’t stop and check now, what if more men come after him? Groaning with the effort, he picks up his pace a little, and tries to take inventory of his other injuries. The shoulder he had wrenched sends lightning streaks of pain into his neck with every movement. The teeth on the right side of his jaw feel lose, and his jaw itself is bruised and aching. He can feel that his nose is crooked, but he can’t stop and try to fix it now. Blood is still dripping slowly down the back of his throat. The lower half of his face is smeared with congealed blood, and the rest of his body doesn’t look a lot better; his clothes are ripped, covered in grit, and stained with even more blood. When he tries to wipe the palms of his hands down his front, he yelps, remembering his first fall into the dirt and how it had dug into his hands.

The cut on his lip stings. He tries to lick it, but it doesn’t help. He counts himself lucky that the men didn’t think to target his arms or legs, though both are sore from scrapes and bruises. At least he can still walk.

After what feels like an age, Mogens notices that he can feel the ocean breeze on his face. He lifts his head as if to test the wind, though he can’t inhale through his rapidly swelling nose, and widens his eyes. He is at the harbor, and night has well and truly fallen. The ships at the docks look like spiked and angular sea monsters rising from the surf, each swaying gently with the swell and ebb of the waves.

Counting the ships, his heart stops. He’d done a careful count of how many vessels had been docked before he’d left in the morning, intending to investigate them later, and one was missing. Fear and disbelief were like a knife slicing through the fog in his brain. He counts again. The place where his ship had been was empty.

He refuses to believe it. His feet suddenly feel like lead, and his heart jumps in his chest like a frantic fish that’s just been dropped to the deck of a ship. The couldn’t have left. They were going to wait until the next day to set sail again, weren’t they?

The man coiling rope on the empty dock starts when he sees Mogens’ face.

“Good lord, are you alrig—”

“Did the ship that was docked here move to a different spot?” Mogens asked, interrupting him quickly.

“Uh, no, I think they set out sometime in the middle of the afternoon,” the man replied, still looking startled and upset.

“…Are any other ships leaving tonight?” Only desperation could make Mogens ask that question. Part of him wanted to plant himself of the dock and wait for the return of the merchant vessel, but when the first card player woke up and found his companion dead, he would bring other men and come after him. If they caught him, he wouldn’t have another chance to escape.

“Smart sea-farers don’t leave in the middle of the night. That said—” The man pointed to a heavy looking ship that was moored a few docks away. “That ship is leaving in the next hour. …Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Mogens manages, then walks as fast as he can down the dock and toward the indicated ship.

“Rough night, boy?” the man next to the heavy-looking boat asks as Mogens approaches. “Hope you’re not thinkin’ of stealin’ my money. Ain’t got none at the moment.”

“Are you the Captain? Will you be leaving tonight?” Mogens asks. He hates the plaintive note in his voice, but he can’t help it. This is his only chance.

“Yep, and I reckon I am. Can’t waste no time getting out, we got money to make.”

Mogens tries to draw himself up, but a shooting pain in his ribs stops him mid-action.

“Please sir, are you looking for help? I know how to work on a ship, and I’m strong.”

“Not especially,” the Captain says, looking him over. “Plus, you’re not in the greatest shape, boy.”

A fresh stream of blood begins to drip down Mogens face from his split lip as he grimaces.

“I heal fast, and I really need the work. Please, Captain.”

The man still looks unconvinced. Realizing that he only has one final card in his hand, Mogens tries to wipe his lip, and says,

“If you take me on now I’ll work for you for free, at least until you make port again.”

“For free?” The Captain straightens and his eyes glint. “I don’t gotta pay you?”

“No.”

“Well, welcome aboard then, boy. I gotta warn you, though, this here is a whaling vessel.” The man slaps the side of his boat affectionately. “If the pick’n’s are good, we won’t make port for a while. You’ve got a quarter of the hour to make up your mind about comin’ on.”

Mogens swallows hard.

“Don’t need the quarter hour,” he rasps. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Alrighty! This way, and I’ll show you where you’ll be sleepin’.”

Mogens does his best to help get the ship underway despite his injuries, then follows the Captain’s directions to find the ship’s medic. When Mogens finds the medic, the man eyes him appraisingly.

“How did all of this happen again?” the medic asks. He dabs at the cut on Mogens’ lip.

“I tripped,” Mogens mumbles from under the cloth.

“Tripped, hm?”

“Uh, yep.”

The medic shrugs and touches Mogens’ broken nose, making him flinch back.

“Sit still, if you wanna breathe properly you’re gonna have to deal with more pain. Now grit your teeth and don’t wiggle.”

Once his nose is realigned, the medic checks his ribs, then his shoulder.

“I can’t see how tripping would do that to your shoulder,” the man comments.

A sinking feeling registers in Mogens’ gut. In the haze of pain and fear, he’d forgotten exactly how the area had been injured. He gulps. His stomach rolls. In a vivid recollection, he is once again clinging to the card player’s back, feeling the life flee from the man’s body.

The medic sees him go white as a sheet.

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint. You should be alright, though you need to sleep. Off to bed with you, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

The ship creaks around Mogens as he lays in his hammock a little while later. Staring up at the ceiling, he tries to breathe steadily and gather his thoughts. His mind is still foggy, but his day is beginning to set in. He has been abandoned by his ship, his home. The Captain he had trusted lied to him, tricked him, and had nearly gotten him killed. His only worldly possessions are now probably being tossed around by the crew members who had disliked him as they joke about leaving him behind. Thinking of the crew, he begins to remember his friends among them. There is little chance he will ever see them again.

Pain blooms under his ribs, but it’s different than the pain that throbs throughout his body, instead it’s a slow and soft ache that fills his chest, pressing on his lungs until he can hardly breathe. He coughs, but the distraction from the sudden lance of fire through his ribs does little to diminish the aching in his heart. Curling up on his less bruised side, he feels a hitch in his breath. The hitch turns into a quiet whimper, then to a nearly silent sob, and a tear spills down over the bridge of his still crooked nose. Trying to wipe it away, he accidentally hits his lip, which begins to bleed once again. He grits his teeth as the next tear runs over the open cut. It stings.

It’s too much for Mogens; he lets out a real sob before he can muffle the sound. The memory of the fight in the alleyway hits him again, and his sobs catch in his chest. He feels sick. Bile begins to well in the back of his throat.

“Oi, mate, are ye smotherin’ a seal in there or somethin’?” a deep, heavily-accented voice asks. Mogens starts, nearly tipping out of his hammock, and tries to sit up. The movement makes his stomach lurch. It’s too dark in the cabin to make out the features of the man who has spoken to him, but he doesn’t much care about that right at this moment.

“I’m gonna be sick,” he manages.

“Well, let’s get ye ootside on th’ double, then.”

The unknown man grips Mogens’ arm, thankfully in one of the less-bruised places, and hoists him out of his hammock. Mogens allows himself to be hauled out onto a shadowed, unoccupied area of the deck, where he promptly throws up what the medic had fed him over the side of the boat.

“Ye have good aim,” the man comments. “Th’ first time I did that, half of it went doon me front! I was wearing me second favorite shirt, too.”

Mogens wipes his hand over his mouth, spits into the water, and leans on the railing.

“Thanks,” he rasps. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Nee bother,” the man replies. “Me name’s Howie. I’d shake yer hand, but I did just see ye wipin’ it ‘cross yer face after ye let loose o’er the side, there.”

A hint of amusement makes the corners of Mogens’ mouth twitch. The lightness in the man’s words lifts his spirits a little bit, and he rubs a hand over his aching shoulder, still leaning on the railing. His face hurts, his ribs twinge, and his throat is raw from throwing up, but being out in the salty night breeze makes him feel just a little bit better. It soothes his hot skin, and in turn begins to soothe his mind.

A rustling sound nearby brings him back to reality, and he looks over to see the man, Howie, digging in his pockets.

“Can ne’er keep track of which pocket I keep the bugger in,” Howie says. “It’s in a different one every time.” A moment later, he pulls a pipe and a pouch from inside his coat. Mogens watches out of the corner of his eye as Howie packs the pipe, then lights it. The scent of the tobacco smoke reminds Mogens of one of his friends from the merchant ship’s crew. The ache in his heart returns. It blooms and claws its way up into his mouth. He coughs, then spits again and wills his eyes to stay dry as he looks out into the night. Despite his best efforts, two tears leak down his face and fall into the blackness below.

Howie blows a cloud of smoke into the air and clears his throat.

“Ye know, this won’ be s’ bad,” he says conversationally. “We look after our own ‘board this ship. Th’ work’s hard, but th’ Captain’s fair.”

Sniffing painfully through his swollen nose, Mogens tries to wipe his eyes without being obvious, and fails miserably.

“‘M not worried about that,” he mumbles. “It’s fine, really.”

“Fine divvint cry o’er ship rails, mate.”

The breeze picks up, carrying the sounds of the ship and night watch to Mogens’ ears. Someone in the rigging shouts the hour. A man jogs past without paying any attention to anything but his goal. A gust of air tugs on Mogens’ shirt and hair, pulling strands out of his ponytail. They tickle his face as he looks up into the sky. He thanks the heavens that his eyes have recovered, and breathes deeply, counting stars until he has the tears under control.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he admits, turning and trying to put on a brave face. “You ever just have one of those days where everything goes wrong?”

Howie grins. His broad face, though slightly intimidating in the shadowy moonlight, is suddenly friendly and open. His eyes twinkle.

“I know exactly what ye mean, mate,” he says with a chuckle, and waves a hand at the sky. “Good thing we’ve a lovely cure-all right up there.”

“I guess so,” Mogens says. He sighs. Hearing this, Howie slaps him on the back, making him wince.

“Howay, mate, th’ other cure-all is sleepin’, and we gotta be up again in a few hours for night watch anyway. Ye can stare at the stars all ye want then.”

Following Howie below deck again, Mogens feels the ache in his heart beginning to return, but he does his best to shove it away. His best doesn’t seem to be enough, yet again, and the pain returns full force, stopping him in his tracks. Air whistles in his throat as he tries to draw breath. Buzzing fills his ears.

He nearly jumps out of his skin as a large arm is slung around his shoulder.

“Easy, there, mate,” Howie says softly. He tousles Mogens hair with his other hand, and the warmth in the gesture pulls Mogens out of his frozen state. “Watch your step. C’mon.”

Howie waits until Mogens is safely back in his hammock, then returns to his own hammock with a cheerful goodnight. Though the creases in the cloth dig into some of Mogens’ bruises, he still manages to find a pretty comfortable position and settles. He can still feel warmth around his shoulders where Howie’s arm had rested, and that warmth sinks into the ache under his ribs, easing the hurt. This time, when Mogens closes his eyes, he falls instantly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @captainmogens OC Howie is a Geordie, thus the accent
> 
> divvint=doesn't/don't (I think)
> 
> The rest should be pretty understandable :D Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
